


Pack up the models

by cirque



Category: Alexander Trilogy - Mary Renault
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:01:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cirque/pseuds/cirque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander meets a group of boys who will stick by his side through thick and thin, though he's currently concerned about remaking the battle of Troy with his clay models...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pack up the models

“Look out,” called the blond boy, walking backwards with his tongue between his teeth, his eyes furrowed together in intense concentration on the full water bowl in his sagging arms. It was at least half his body weight, and his knees were buckling with the effort of keeping the minimal amount from spilling. He backed himself underneath a favoured stoa in the courtyard, shadowing him from the noon heat, and swivelled to deposit the bowl. In so doing, he splashed his feet with the cool water, hopped in surprise, and dumped a great deal more water across the floor.

 

                Leonidas, by the porphyry fountain gathering up his just-finished scrolls, tutted in distaste as the spilt water splattered onto his leather sandals. He raised an eyebrow to Alexander and would have reprimanded further if only he had not been instructed by the king to leave the boy to his games today. Philip had visitors, and it was best if they witness the prince at a happier moment. So with great regret, Leonidas passed the boy by unscathed. When his back was turned, Alexander made a face to the detested tutor.

 

                He continued with his rare moment of play, taking the wood-carved model soldiers one by one and soaking them in the fresh water, working his reddened thumb into every crevice to clear away the crusting mud. He had been playing in the meadows last time, and the dog had pounded his models into the muddy ground. It had been a particularly funny turn of the battle at Troy, to have Odysseus and the rest submerged under water. Alexander had whooped with joy, surprising even himself at the sound, and called about an immediate rescue team for them. His box had been empty of all but a troupe of dancing Persians, and so it was these who had aided the fallen Greeks. Now, his mother had sighted the messy toys, and instructed him to wash them in clean water.

 

                He dumped Achilles in mercilessly, there was nothing this strong warrior could not take. This model was the dearest of the lot, made out of clay not wood, and had real bronze detailing on the spectacular helmet. He held him under the water, imagining his little body squirming without air until he swept him up in his hands, he, Alexander, the great saviour. It struck him as odd, to be left alone undisturbed for so long, and he suspected Leonidas of biding his time. Still, it would not hurt to find a friend… He leant against the tall column, in the stoa above which his father was entertaining his latest guests, and sighed in the heat.

 

                “What is all this water?” Came the much-missed call of a familiar voice, raising up at the end with unrepressed laughter as if the whole sentence was a mere greeting call for Alexander. He looked up expectantly, into the bright eyes of tall Ptolemy, a smile breaking across his face. Ptolemy had been gone for weeks, and had missed the entire enactment of Homer’s work so far. Now Alexander’s spirit brightened, for perhaps Ptolemy could help with the envoy to Achilles.

 

                Ptolemy rushed to Alexander, ruffling his wind-swept hair with no more ado. Prince though he was, Ptolemy was Alexander’s oldest friend. In his glorious shadow, three boys loitered, leaning against one another nervously, unable to hide their unspoilt excitement at laying eyes on the beautiful prince. The tallest was too tall for Alexander’s liking, and had a mean face that was turned up a little in distaste. He frowned at Alexander’s inspecting eyes, and the prince moved on to the next boy. Shorter, and altogether more inclined to smile, he gave a nervous nod of the head which then turned in to an uncertain bow. Alexander laughed at his confusion, and looked to the last boy. He was shorter than these two, though taller than Alexander, and did not so much as blink at Alexander’s attention. His feet shuffled, and Ptolemy stepped forwards.

 

                “Alexander, these are the sons of your father’s guest-friends. They are in my charge for today - though it seems as though you would not turn down our company. What are you doing anyway?”

 

                Alexander turned to show the young man his bowl of water, and filled him in on the events that had befallen the Greek army in the muddy meadow. Ptolemy let out a realistic gasp of shock upon hearing that it had taken twenty minutes to pull out Menelaus. “Do you want to stay and help?”

 

                Ptolemy’s eyes narrowed, and the prince guessed his thoughts. Before Ptolemy had left, he would have been thrilled to help the boy in his games, but Alexander was more than aware that times had changed. Ptolemy had responsibilities now and, besides, grown men did not wish to play with wooden soldiers.

 

                Ptolemy smiled. “But perhaps my charges can assist? How are you at history boys?”

 

                The three of them shrugged disinterestedly, the tallest rolling his eyes as if he planned to slouch off at the first opportunity.

 

                “Well,” continued Ptolemy, doing his best to ignore this, “it does not matter much. Alexander doesn’t play things historically accurate anyway.”

 

                The middle boy, the one full of smiles, hurried forwards and stuck his hand into the bowl, roughly pulling out Achilles from his resting float atop the water’s surface. Alexander howled in shock, and grasped the toy from this stranger. “Not Achilles! You may play with the others, but Achilles is my favourite, and only I am allowed to touch him.”

 

                Ptolemy clapped the middle boy on the shoulder playfully. “Philotas, it would do you well to remember how dear Achilles is to our Alexander.” Perplexed, Philotas said nothing, and sat beside the box of damp, clean warriors, lifting out a handful and setting them up along the dusty floor.

 

                Satisfied that no blood would be spilt, Ptolemy gave a lasting smile and left the boys to their games, and it was mere seconds before the tallest of the three strangers hurried off without a word. Alexander returned to washing the models, feeling that all three boys might as well walk off, for all the fun they were to be around.

 

                On the floor, Philotas kept insisting that it would do no good to have Hector and Paris fight to the death, no matter what Alexander suggested. The third boy had not even moved from the spot where Ptolemy had left him, and might as well not exist for all the other two noticed.

 

                “Don’t trouble yourself with Kassander,” Philotas advised Alexander, jerking his thumb in the direction that the mean-looking boy had walked. “He is made of spite. Trust me, it is best that he did not stay and play with us. He would have thrown all your toys off a bridge.”

 

                Alexander shrugged. “I have seen him about before. His father is one of my father’s favourites. I don’t like the look of him.”

 

                “Nobody does,” Philotas echoed, and the boys laughed in their mutual distaste of a fellow enemy. Philotas was full of stories about this strange boy that Ptolemy had found, and Alexander left Achilles, forgotten, in the bottom of the basin.

 

                Philotas finished one particularly fanciful tale, and turned to their mute onlooker by the furthest column. “Now look here, our silent friend still doesn’t say anything. Does he have a tongue?”

 

                Alexander fixed him with a critical look. As expected, this third boy wriggled under the intensity of the prince’s gaze. “I have met him before, I’m certain. Your face is familiar. I know now, you spoke to me then. But I can’t remember your name.”

 

                After a moment’s indecision, this third boy looked down at his dusty feet. “Hephaistion,” he mumbled, and made a show of tightening the buckle on one of his sandals. Philotas laughed outright at the boy’s shyness. Alexander shushed him down, and Philotas retreated to his previous seat to salvage Paris from his murderous brother.

 

                “Hephaistion,” said Alexander musingly, “well, do you want to play with us? What do you say?”

 

                “Achilles,” Hephaistion started forwards suddenly, vaulted out of his quite reserve. He strode past Philotas on the floor, and shoved his hands into the bowl of water. “Achilles, you’re drowning him.” His arm resurfaced, and he clutched the dripping model of Achilles close to his chest, as if the hero himself was encased in the clay confines. Philotas gawped up in shock, waiting to see how Alexander would react to someone seizing his precious toy.

 

                The prince stood back, unwary. “You saved him. He was going to drown and you saved him.” Hephaistion hardly believed his luck that he should escaped uninjured. He meekly held out his hand, and let Alexander scoop up the damp figurine. “Well done solider,” the prince addressed Hephaistion now, and not Achilles. “Your work was brave.”

 

                “Where have you got up to? In your games?”

 

                Philotas rolled his eyes at Hephaistion’s pure predictability, but Alexander smiled to have someone take an interest. “I’m at the part where Patroclus talks to Achilles alone. I would be at the envoy to Achilles, but only Ptolemy can help with that. If you wish, my father said I am allowed to go into the meadows whenever I want, and we could go and play out there?”

 

                Hephaistion agreed, feeling that he had little other choice, and the two boys together poured the remainder of the water out onto the ground. Some splashed onto Philotas’ crossed legs, and he yelped unhappily. The prince and his new playmate, already deep in discussion, walked side by side across the courtyard.

 

                “Philotas,” Alexander called back over his shoulder, “pack up the models, and make sure they are all clean. I don’t need them now.”

 


End file.
